Snip Snip
by Tazo
Summary: They say that we only really tell the truth to three people. Our psychatrist. Our priest. And our barber.
1. Alucard

Word to the unkowing, this is a slight crossover with Castlevania. In the Castlevania canon, Dracula's right hand man is the Grim Reaper, Death. One has to wonder what the Reaper has been doing now that his master is sealed away by Hellsing.

Castlevania copyright by Konami

Hellsing copyright by Kouta Hiraino.

* * *

"It's… been a long time, Master." Death said, his voice sounding like the cold, biting wind that blows across the graveyard at midnight.

"It has indeed, servant," Alucard responded, crossing his arms.

"I am quite happy to see that you have finally returned," Death said.

"I will admit, it is good to be back."

"It is finally time then?"

Alucard nodded. "Yes, it is my servant."

Death nodded in return. "Very well then. Let us begin, my master." He turned around and drew a sheet off of a chair. "Take off your hat and sit down, if you would."

Alucard removed his hat and sat down in the chair in front of the mirror. He had often thought about asking his former servant how he had managed to locate a mirror that even reflected vampires, but then decided that he probably didn't want to know. He heard a grinding sound behind him as the Grim Reaper sharpened his scythe.

"So," Death said as conversationally as a man with a voice like a thousand coffin doors slamming shut could say, "how has your love life been? I don't suppose Sir Hellsing allows you much free time?"

"… I don't get out much, no. What time I have that do not spend hunting other vampires I am generally restricted to the mansion. While it is quite a nice mansion by today's standards, it is rather boring."

"I suppose the action makes up for it? After all, we were going to kill most of the trash that you kill anyway. The flames of Chaos do not spare the weak. Tilt your head please, Master."

Alucard sat straighter in his chair and leaned his head forward. Death floated behind him and began to trim at Alucard's hair with his scythe.

"That's exactly the problem," Alucard said, "They're weak. Pathetically weak. Painfully weak. No real challenge at all. Sometimes I find myself wishing that a Belmont would go rogue just so I could actually have the challenge of fighting them."

"So no enemies truly worthy of your power, my lord?"

Alucard smirked. "Only one to keep me busy. The Paladin."

"Alexander Anderson?"

"You know him then?" Alucard asked. He started to fidget in his chair.

Death reached out and held him down. "Stop that Master, I might cut you by accident. I only know Anderson by name only. He has an appointment with me on Friday."

"Excellent. I referred him to you the last time we fought. He may be the only worthwhile foe I have these days."

"And why is that, Master?" Death asked. He tapped the scythe and it began vibrating like an electric razor.

"He keeps coming back for me. I shot off all of his limbs the last time and he seemed ready to gnaw my ankles off." Alucard chuckled. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. "Do you think I should grow a beard?" he asked.

"Only if you wish to look like Alan Rickman, Master."

Alucard raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.

"You never answered my question sir. How is your love life?" Death said as he began to trim Alucard's bangs.

Alucard remained silent.

"You have to get over Lisa and Mina sometime, Master. Hopefully sooner rather than later."

Alucard stared intently at his reflection.

"Perhaps Sir Hellsing herself? She does look somewhat like mistress Lisa."

"You overstep yourself, servant. If you do not wish me to shove your scythe down your throat, I would suggest you end this topic of conversation now."

Death nodded. "I apologize my Master. I only ask because she has an appointment in three hours and I was wondering if you wanted me to remove the pictures of you from the 1940's."

Alucard's eyes widened. "You still have them up?"


	2. Pip

"Next!" Death called.

"…That might the freakiest thing I have ever heard in my life," Pip said.

"He's harmless now. I promise. He cuts hair," Seras said.

"Easy for you to say, you're already dead. You've got nothing to fear from him."

"Actually," Death said as he floated into the room. "I can still kill her as well."

Seras' eyes widened. "…You can?"

"Oh yes. I did it Walter Bernhardt many years ago. I am, or rather I _was_, an angel of death after all." He picked up a clipboard. "Now, who's next?"

"HE IS!" Seras shouted.

"SHE IS!" Pip yelled at the same time.

They both stared at each other, jabbing their fingers in the other's direction. Eventually Pip faltered and sighed. "Damn chivalrous impulses," he said as he stood up.

Seras smiled. "I wasn't aware you had chivalrous impulses."

"I'm a descendent of French knights, cherie. Chivalry is our blood," Pip said as he sat in the chair. Seras came into the room and leaned against a door to watch.

"No you aren't. Your family has been mercenaries for generations now."

Pip raised an eyebrow. "And how do you claim to know that?"

Death threw a sheet around him and fastened it behind his neck. "I'm Death. I know these things. Now what can I do for you?"

"Cut his braid off," Seras said.

Pip twisted around in his seat. "What? We never agreed on that!"

"It's a ludicrous thing to have in a fight," Seras responded. "Last week you nearly got yourself choked to death by the damn thing"

"So short hair?"

"No! Just trim it a bit. Maybe halfway down the back."

Seras shook her head. "No. All the way. You do realize that I'm the one that suffers as a result of your long hair? It gets caught in my throat when we sleep!"

Pip slumped sullenly in his chair. "Freaking Delilah."

"Why don't we compromise?" Death said. "I'll cut it to shoulder length and you can pull it back into a pony-tail. Trust me, I'll show you how to make it look good."

Pip glanced over at Seras, who nodded. "That works," he said.

Death nodded and spun his scythe around. He reared back and swung.

Pip fell forward, clutching his head. Seras ran up and knelt down to him. "Pip! Are you alright? PIP!"

"Uganda…" Pip said. "I'm back in Uganda. My eye… my eye!"

Seras threw her arms around him. "It's okay. I'm here. I'm here."

Death snapped his fingers and Pip's vision suddenly cleared and he was back in the barber shop.

"I'm terribly sorry sir, was that your soul I just nicked?"


	3. Seras

Pip sat in a chair and sipped at a mug of warm liquid.

"I am terribly sorry sir. That so rarely happens, I forget that the scythe can reap souls some times. Just drink the hot chocolate and I promise you'll feel better."

Pip's eye was still twitching. Death pushed the mug to Pip's lips. "Drink the hot chocolate sir, I promise you'll feel better. This one's on the house, for you and your girlfriend."

"I wouldn't say that I'm his girlfriend," Seras said. "It's more of a… help me out here, Captain."

"Sorry cherie, can't help you on this one. I'm still drowning the unpleasant memories in surprisingly good hot chocolate."

Death made a noise that was somewhere between a cough and a duck throwing up.

Seras twisted around in the barber's chair. "Are you alright?"

"Of course. I was merely describing your relationship as best I could."

"What on earth did you say?" Seras asked.

"A word in another language. Millennia dead now. I took the last speaker myself. Loosely translated, it means 'A love that, though unspoken and unpromised, will always remain faithful.'" Death shook his head. "English is such a clumsy language." He turned hi head towards Pip. "As in French."

Pip shrugged and continued to sip at his mug. "Good hot chocolate," he said.

Death floated around Seras, inspecting her hair. He clicked his tongue, an impressive feat considering his apparent lack of one. He glanced down at his scythe. "I'll need Rosalin," he said, floating out of the room. He returned with an enormous double-bladed scythe. He began to spin it above his head and threw himself into Seras' hair with gusto.

"Who's that?" Seras asked, pointing to a black and white photo of a young man dressed in what appeared to be a waiter's outfit. Next to him stood a feminine figure in a white coat and a fuzzy hat.

Death stopped cutting Seras' hair and looked up at the photo. "Oh, I thought I had taken them all down. That is a picture of the Master and Walter from the 1940's. The Master was in a, shall we say, experimental stage."

Seras stared, wide eyed. "That's Master Alucard?"

Death nodded. "Yes. One of my greatest successes or one of my greatest failures. I'm still not sure which."

Pip stopped sipping at his hot chocolate. "That's Alucard?"

Death nodded.

Pip stood up and walked into the back room. "I need more hot chocolate."

Seras and Death watched Pip walk into the back room. Death made a series of clicks.

Seras raised an eyebrow. Death shrugged. "It means 'The feeling one gets when questioning one's own sexuality.'"

Seras nodded. "Ahhh. I know that feeling."

"Oh really?" Death asked as he started to cut her hair again.

"Oh yes. When I first met Sir Integra." Her face screwed up in thought. "I wonder if he'll come to the same conclusion I did?"


	4. Integral

Sorry, this one isn't actually all that humorous. But I guess I'm not exactly in the mood for humor. Still, I like it nonetheless.

* * *

"Ahh, Sir Hellsing. Please, step this way."

Integra was staring at the wall, a pensive expression on her face. "It looks like there's something missing here. Did you remove a picture?"

"The frame broke," Death replied. "I took the picture down until I could get a new one."

Integra shrugged and followed the Grim Reaper. She sat in the chair as Death looked over his tools.

"You mentioned over the phone that there was a specific reason for this visit?"

Integra nodded. "I have a ball to attend."

"I was under the impression that you were not one for social functions?"

Integra sighed. "Some things cannot be avoided."

Death nodded. "I understand, now let us begin." He looked at Integra in the mirror for a moment, then at a painting he had hanging on the wall behind him. "I wonder… yes. It just might work. Sir Hellsing, would you be so kind as to remove your glasses?"

Death floated off as Integra removed her glasses. "Do you happen to have prescription contact lenses?" he called back.

"I do," Integra replied, "But I don't like using them."

"Well," Death said, returning with some black hair ribbons. "If you would be willing to bear with them for one night, I believe this could work." He took her hair in the back and pulled it into a pony-tail. "Yes, I do believe that could work quite well if I trim it a bit. What color dress will you be wearing? So that I know what color ribbon to order for you?"

"Black," Integra responded. She twisted around in her seat. "In fact, it's very similar to the dress that woman is wearing."

Death stared at the painting. "Oh, really?"

Integra nodded. "In fact, that woman bears a remarkable resemblance to me. Who is she?"

"One of my former clients from centuries and centuries ago."

Integra inspected the painting closer. "Perhaps she was one of my ancestors?"

"I highly doubt that, Sir Integra. I highly doubt that indeed."

"What was her name?"

"Lisa."

"No last name?"

"…None that I was aware of. At least, until her marriage."

"And then?"

"… I'm afraid that it has slipped my mind. It was an awfully long time ago."

"You're lying to me," Integra said, "I could make Alucard _make_ you tell me the truth."

"All that for the name of a woman long since dead, Sir Hellsing? What would the point in that be?"

Integra shrugged, then turned back to the mirror. "Let's begin," she said.

Death nodded. "I assume your escort will be wearing black as well?"

"I suppose. Though I may have to force him out of the abominable red coat."

Death was silent for a moment. "So, the Master is taking you?"

Integra nodded. "As I said before, some things cannot be avoided."

"Indeed, Sir Hellsing. What point is there in resisting the inevitable? Why don't you go ahead into the next room and we'll wash your hair. I'll be along in a moment."

Integra stood up, put her glasses back on, and walked out of the room.

Death turned around and stared at the painting again. "I wonder… is it worth trying? Should I cross over and ask you? Or perhaps, I should leave you to your rest. Yes, I think that would be best course of action. After all, does not fortune favor the brave? Though as I recall she also had a fondness for rocky road ice cream." Death shook his head and waved a hand as he left the room. A shadow fell off of the bottom of the painting where it had been obscuring a plaque.

"Lisa Fairenheights Tepes. Devoted Wife and Loving Mother."


	5. Anderson

Dum dee dee dum dum da dee da dee da dum 

Death hummed as he washed his scythes. He glanced up at the clock. His next customer should be arriving soon.

Ding 

"Is this four, four, four, four Omega Lane?" a heavily accented voice called from the front.

"Yes! I'll be right there!" Death called. He removed the scythe and stuck it in a gigantic vat of antiseptic. He floated out to find a tall priest flipping through an "Entertainment Weekly" in his front room. He quickly began to assume the human form his more… unaware customers found easier to deal with, but the priest interrupted.

"No need for that. I ken full well what you are."

"Ahh, you must be Mr. Anderson?"

"_Father _Anderson. Do I look like a pretty boy in a black coat and sunglasses who cannot even do an English accent correctly?"

"…I got the first part, but what's that about the English accent?"

Anderson put the magazine back in the rack and stood up. "I take it you've never seen the Francis Ford Coppola version of your Master's story?"

"I'm afraid not. From what the Master described I didn't peg you as one for movies."

"When we meet we're generally doing our best to remove each other's heads. Serious discussion of our personal lives does not often come up." He walked into the other room and sat down in the chair. Death threw a sheet around him and began to sharpen one of his scythes.

"From what I hear, you ended up quite badly the last time you fought my Master."

Anderson twisted around in his seat. "What did that piece of filth say?"

"Turn around and take off your glasses, please. He said that he managed to remove all of your limbs."

Anderson scoffed. "Not likely. He only got an arm and a leg. Besides, I got him back."

"What kind of look are you going for?" Death asked. He floated behind Anderson and began to inspect his head.

"Maybe the 'Just got of bed' look?" Anderson responded.

"… You already have that look, Father."

"Oh. Well, whatever you thinks best. You're the barber."

Death shrugged. He stared into the mirror. "Have you ever thought about shaving?" He suddenly found himself staring down a bayonet.

"Don't touch the facial hair. You may have been an angel once, but Lord in Heaven help me I will _skewer_ you if you try it."

Death gently pushed Anderson's arm down. "Understood. No shaving, not a problem." He picked up the scythe and began to cut Anderson's hair. "So, out of sheer curiosity, what did you do to my Master in your last fight?"

Anderson chuckled, then let it give way to a full laugh. "Showed him what it must have felt like for all of his subjects back in the fifteenth century."

Death stopped cutting. "Wait, you don't mean?"

"Tell me," Anderson said, "Was he particularly fidgety the last time he was here?"


	6. The Major

"Good day, Major," Death said in perfect German.

Hey, he's Death, he can speak whatever language he damn well feels like.

"Good day Death, how are you?"

"Quite well, Herr Major. Please step into the other room and take your glasses off."

The Major nodded and walked into the other room. "Have you spoken to War lately?" he called from inside.

Death tapped his teeth with a bony finger as he looked over his scythes. "Yes. He's honored, but he's not quite sure if he can trust your offer."

"My intentions are all for the best." The Major said as Death floated into the room. "It's coming you know. I have seen to it myself."

"Perhaps," Death replied.

The Major smiled. "I take it Famine and Pestilence still refuse to speak with you?"

Death swung his scythe and cut some of the Major's hair. "They do not… approve of my activities since leaving the service of the Master."

"To each his own," the Major said. He lanced his fingers in front of his mouth. "We shall have to make our own horsemen then."

"With you as War?"

The Major chuckled. "No. I am Famine." He patted his ample stomach. "The soldier, the Captain is War. The Doctor, who found a way to artificially spread the vampiric disease, is Pestilence."

"Tilt your head down," Death said. "Who will be Death then? I cannot help you. I will not go against my Mater. And besides, I'm retired."

The Major smirked. "We will find a way to make do." He glanced behind him and suddenly held up a hand. Death stopped in mid swing. The Major twisted around in his chair and stared at the painting of Lisa.

"… A fascinating painting, Death."

"Indeed. It is one of my favorites."

"I can see why. How much, I wonder, would it take for you to part with it?"

"I have another painting of the lady, but this one has a certain sentimental value."

"Oh really?" The Major asked. He glanced towards the back room and motioned to the Grim Reaper. Death leaned down and listened to the Major's offer.

If Death had had eyebrows, he would have furrowed them in thought. "I don't think the Master would be very pleased," Death finally said.

"True," the Major responded. He turned back to face the mirror and laced his fingers again. "But did not you yourself say that it his time for him to move on?"


	7. Schrödinger

The bell outside tingled as Death drew a cup from his new espresso machine. He stared down at it and sighed. "I am so very, very weak."

The bell rang again. Then again. Then again and again and again and again and again and-

"ALRIGHT! I'm coming!"

"Not much of a place if they keep the customer waiting while they drink a cup of coffee," a voice said from behind him.

Death turned around to see a young boy in a Hitler Youth uniform playing with one of his scythes. "Wow, these are pretty sharp. What do ya use 'em for? I mean, it's not like you're out reaping souls anymore."

Death grunted and the scythe leapt from the boy's hand and flew to his own. "You must be Schrödinger," Death said. He turned around and placed the scythe in its rightful place. "The Major warned me about you."

He turned around to find that Schrödinger had disappeared. "Really?" the boy's voice called from the main room. "Why did he 'warn' you about me. I mean, I can understand why he would arrange an appointment for me while he was here, but did he really have to warn you about me? Hey! What does this lever on the chair do?"

Death rushed out of the back room into the waiting room. He flew through the waiting room into where Schrödinger was playing with the chair. As he rushed through, he noticed that he had another customer sitting patiently in the chair. A tall man in a greatcoat quietly reading a newspaper. The tall man's eyes briefly flashed upwards toward Death as he sped through the room, then went back to the newspaper.

Death grabbed Schrödinger's by the collar and yanked him away from the chair. "Stop playing with that chair. Keep this up and I _will_ cut your ears off, even if it does mean I have to repay the Major for his loss. Which I am sure will not be much. Do you understand me?"

Schrödinger nodded. Death turned around and yelled back into the waiting room "I'll be with you in a minute sir!" He turned around to see that Schrödinger had disappeared from his grasp and was now rooting through his cupboards.

"Don't mind that guy out there. He's not a customer, he's my escort or chaperone or whatever you want to call it. The Major says I can't go out alone anymore. Something about how the last time I went out alone, I accidentally caused the Cuban Missile Crisis. I don't know what the big deal is. I mean, it all got resolved, didn't it? It's not like I started World War III before we were ready."

He picked out a couple of bottles from the cupboard and turned around. "Do you have any anti-flea shampoo? I've had a wicked case ever since I visited Cambodia and the Doc wants me to take care of it before they get on everyone else."

"…Get in the chair!" Death rushed at the kid, but he proved to be surprisingly quick. He yelped and darted out of the way, always dodging out of Death's grasp.

Suddenly, right as Schrödinger leapt over the chair, and hand came out of nowhere and slammed him against the back. Schrödinger's gaze followed up the enormous gloved hand, down the long arm, and to the face of the man who had been sitting out in the front room with the newspaper. The man glared at Schrödinger for a while. Schrödinger wilted.

"I'll… just sit here and be quiet then?"

The tall man slowly took his hand away and stepped back.

Death turned to him. "Do you want a haircut after him?"

Nod.

"Good. It's on the house. Now, Schrödinger," Death said as he picked up his double bladed scythe. "Try not to move your ears too much, alright?"


	8. The Captain

"I agree, the Fifth is undoubtedly his finest work, but I have a certain personal attachment to the Third."

Schrödinger fidgeted nervously in his seat. This was starting to really creep him out, which was saying a lot for someone who lived in a secret South American base populated by a thousand vampire Nazis.

He still wasn't sure if Death was actually having a conversation with the Captain, or was just talking to himself in order to unnerve Schrödinger. Which Schrödinger wouldn't put past the Grim Reaper. He got the distinct impression that Death was still annoyed about him breaking that potted plant.

"Well, I suppose one could argue that the First is the most important."

Music. Schrödinger was sure they were talking about classical music. The Captain would often hang around in the Major's room and listen to classical music with him. Though "hanging out" was probably not the correct word for it. The Captain never "hung out" anywhere, and probably never had. Wherever the Captain was, he loomed.

Schrödinger often wondered if the Captain had loomed as a child. Did he have that scary "Captain Stare"? Could he cow his teachers with it?

"I'm not going to judge you on why you have it, I was just mildly surprised that you had it. But if it's a present, that makes sense."

Schödinger decided that the Captain probably _could_ scare teachers at that age, but didn't. Much like he _could _scare the Doc and the Major if he tried, but didn't.

"I don't understand what they see in them, honestly, but your effort to reach out and try to connect with him is truly commendable."

Okay, so maybe he couldn't scare the Major, but honestly, what was the fat man afraid of? He didn't really seem to fear much of anything.

Schrödinger had, by this point, successfully tuned out the entire conversation. It was really boring anyway. What fun was there listening to a one-sided conversation?

Okay, so maybe listening to the Major and Doc talk to themselves was fun, but that wasn't so much listening to one-sided conversations as it was listening to ranting.

Schrödinger paused and tried to remember what it was he was thinking about before he got sidetracked. Ah yes, the Captain looming in the Major's room.

The Captain, when not guarding the Major, could be found looming in everyone's room, really. Well, not so much looming. If he was in the Doctor's room, he would assist in the experiments. If he was with Tublicain, he would play cards (And lose. Everyone lost to Tublicain. And the last person that accused him of cheating they still hadn't found all the body parts of.) If he was with Rip, he would listen to opera with her. With Zorin… well, Schrödinger had his own theories about what he was doing with Zorin, based on what he could hear before Rip found him and dragged him off to listen to opera with her.

It wasn't that he minded listening to the opera, it's just that he really wanted to hear how far they were going. He was pretty sure it was the Captain that had inked the tattoos Luke Valentine had drawn up.

Hell, the Captain was even to be found with the Valentine Brothers, while they had been living at the base. Either he was helping Luke translate some ancient text or he was in Jan's room, sparring with the younger hot blood.

"Well, watching him do it is one thing, but participating with him? Some might argue that you're too old to try learning something new like that."

Schrödinger tried to remember what the Captain was doing when he was in his room. Despite his looming prescence, Schödinger tended to not notice that the Captain was there when he appeared. The man was unusually stealthy for someone his size. Schrödinger supposed that his inability to speak might somehow be related.

It was usually when he was playing video games that Schrödinger would notice the Captain in his room. He would beat a boss, reach the next level, achieve something, and he would jump up in victory. It was during this victory dance that he would turn around and notice that the Captain was behind him. He would look at Schrödinger, nod, and continue to watch the game.

"_Ahem_," Death said.

Schrödinger looked up to see the Captain and the Grim Reaper standing over him. "We're done." The Captain nodded and walked through the door.

Schrödinger got up to leave when he felt Death's bony hand on his shoulder. "Try not to beat him too hard at it the first time, alright? I mean, old people never like being shown up by young ones."

Schrödinger stared up at the Grim Reaper for a moment before comprhension flashed across his face.

"Wait, did he buy me Mario Kart Racing?"


	9. Enrico

_Tap, tap, tap_.

Death sighed. On the one hand, having Father Anderson recommend his services out to all of Iscariot was extremely good for business.

On the other hand it did mean he was attracting much more irritating clientele.

Death floated into the main room to see a tall, silver haired priest staring up at a blank space on the wall.

"Where was that painting that you had hanging up here the last time?"

Death had already learned how obnoxious a customer Enrico Maxwell could be.

"Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking about attempting to purchase it."

"I'm afraid I already sold it to another gentleman."

Enrico frowned and started to mutter in Italian. Death cleared his non-existent throat. "I speak Italian, you know. And I find that remark most offensive."

Enrico frowned and switched to muttering in Greek.

"I speak Greek as well."

Enrico opened his mouth, but Death cut him off before he could speak. "I also speak Latin."

"Is there any language you _don't_ speak?"

"No."

"Can you read my mind, then?"

"Only when I want to."

Enrico and Death stared at each other for a while.

"As I am now," Death said.

Enrico's eye started twitching.

"…Why don't we just… start with the haircut?"

Enrico nodded. "I believe that would be a good idea."

"Indeed. Take off your glasses, let out your hair, and sit down, please."

Enrico complied, still grimacing.

"I take it you do not have any contact lenses available?"

"No," Enrico growled, "And stop reading my mind."

"I wasn't, I merely deduced it from the fact that you have your glasses. Now, will we be dying your hair?"

Enrico's eye started to twitch again. "My hair is _naturally_ silver."

"Of course it is."

"No, I'm serious. It_ is_ naturally silver."

"I don't doubt you sir."

"Look, if you can read my mind, you would know that it's naturally silver!"

"I don't know what your talking about sir, I can't read minds."

_Twitch twitch_.


	10. Walter

"Ah, the Angel of Death, how are you?"

"Quite well, thank you," Walter replied.

Death nodded and stuck the scythe he was polishing into a large vat of gel.

"It's been quite a while since I saw you," Death said, glancing at a picture on the wall.

Walter stared at the painting and sighed. "Indeed. I cut my own hair these days, generally."

Death, if he could have, would've looked surprised. "With the wires?" he asked.

Walter nodded.

"We should set up a barber shop together," Death said. "We could call ourselves 'Angels of Death'."

"Yes," Walter said, "but what kind of clientele would that attracts?"

"No stranger than the clientele I currently have, I assure you." Death finished cleaning his last scythe and placed it in the gel vat. "Now, since you cut your own hair, what brings you to my humble establishment?"

Walter shrugged. "A desire for something new, I suppose. A change." He coughed. "Plus, I'm not as young as I once was…"

"Of course. Take off your monocle, let out your hair, and sit down in the other room. I'll be right along."

While Death collected his tools, he pondered what the Major had said on his last visit. The implication had been very clear, at least in Death's mind. However, ever since his Master had been bound to the Hellsings, Death had adopted a strict policy of neutrality. He took no sides in any conflict. Neither between heaven and hell, allies and axis, or anything in between. He didn't bother anyone, and they didn't bother him. And his privacy policy for his clients was _very_ strict.

But…

Just between two Angels of Death.

"Your privacy policy is still in effect?" Walter asked nervously as Death entered the room.

Death nodded reassuringly. "Of course. Not a soul will know. About your visit. By the way, Walter, if you should run into some… old friends…"

"Greetings, Father Renaldo," Death said.

Father Renaldo nodded in greeting. "Was that Walter I just saw leaving?"

Death shook his head. "You know my privacy policy, Father Renaldo. I tend to cater to those who don't exist."

Father Renaldo shrugged and looked at Death's counter. "Is this black hair dye?"


	11. Father Renaldo

"So, my dear Renaldo, how are you fairing?"

"About the same," Father Renaldo replied as he removed his glasses. "Life at Iscariot goes on as it usually does. I do my best to keep the assassins comfortable."

"To keep the sanity among the insane?" Death suggested.

"To be so sane that to appear insane," Father Renaldo replied. "I do what I can. I arm them, I train them, I make sure they have food to eat and a place to sleep. But I still feel as though it is not enough."

"You pity them," Death said.

"And should I not? They fight for the Lord. They kill for the Lord. They die for the Lord. And still, no matter how long or how hard they fight or how much they sacrifice, they are damned for their sins. The least I can offer them is some earthly pity.

"And what sin, did you commit Father, to be among the insane?"

"You and I both know the answer to that," Renaldo responded.

"Of course I do, Death's Disciple, Bearer of Golgatha-"

"No! Not the old names. Never again the old names!"

Death put a finger to his non-existant lips. "I merely wish to know if you had considered my offer."

Renaldo took a few deep breaths. "No. No, Death. You may have been an angel, and you may know the truth, but I would rather have my faith. Knowledge is a dangerous, cold, and uncomforting thing at times. My faith will always comfort me in my dark hours."

"…Actually, I was referring to my _other_ offer, but that's good to know as well."

"Oh! Oh… I… I'm not sure. I mean, it might be unnatural…"

"Walter accepted the offer."

"He did? That would explain a lot… Well, if Walter thought it was a worthy offer…"

Later that day at Iscariot headquarters 

Father Enrico Maxwell whistled lightly as he turned the corner. He was so engrossed in the report he was report he was reading he almost tripped of Sister Heinkel Wulfe.

"Heinkel! What are you doing underfoot like this?"

Heinkel only shook her head and didn't answer.

Enrico was puzzled as to what could frighten his most unflappable agent when he heard Father Renaldo's voice behind him.

"Is she alright, Father Maxwell? She saw me, screamed, and ran."

"That's odd," Enrico said as he turned around. "What on earth would make her-LORD IN HEAVEN HELP ME!" Enrico grabbed Heinkel's hand and dragged her down the hall to the safety of his office.

Renaldo could hear the bolts slam home as Enrico closed his door. He scratched his jet-black hair. "Do they not like it?"


	12. Rip

"Miss Van Winkle?" Death called as he floated into the reception room. "You're ne-" Death stopped in mid-sentence and stared at his client.

"It's Lieutenant," Rip Van Winkle replied, standing up from her chair.

Death continued to stare at her.

Rip coughed politely, then more firmly. Death still remained transfixed.

"Excuse me? I'm down here!"

Death shook his head suddenly. "What, I'm sorry? You were saying something?"

Rip scowled. "Yes. I said that it's Lieutenant. Lieutenant Rip Van Winkle."

"Right," Death responded. His eyes sneaked back up to Rip's hair. "And what exactly will you be wanting me to do for you today, Lieutenant?"

Rip shrugged. "Oh, about the same as it is now. Only shorter."

"…Right," Death said. "Somehow I knew you'd say that. Alright. Sit down and take off your glasses. I'll be out in a moment."

Rip sat down in the chair while Death floated into the back room. He suddenly popped his head out. "You might want to grab a magazine, I may be a while."

Rip went back, grabbed a six month old copy of _Time_ and started to flip through it. "Rubbish," she muttered as she pawed her way through an article on the Spear of Longinus, "Patton never touched it. It's back in the Wolf's Den. And it looks nothing like that."

A loud crash followed by what sounded like a thousand minor demons shrieking in a chorus of agony erupted from the back room.

"Be out in just a minute!" Death called.

Rip went back to her magazine and started to hum opera under her breath.

The barber shop began to shake and a blinding flash was emitted from the back room. In all houses within a mile radius of the building, frightening ghostly shapes appeared on all television and computer screens. Small household objects moved of their own will while inhuman wailing pierced the air. At a cemetery half a mile to the west of the shop, coffins began to shake and the packed earth above them began to crack and move. A bony, decomposed hand burst out of a grave.

Rip licked her finger and flipped the page of her magazine.

Death floated out with his regular scythe, the enormous double-bladed scythe, and several jars filled with glowing _something_.

"Alright," Death said as he spread the blanket around Rip who moved her arms so she could continue to read her magazine. Death stared at the impossible curl in Rip's hair as he rolled up his sleeves. "Let's get started."


End file.
